Summary: Everything the Prince worked to avoid is happening again. Can the Prince stop things before it's too late? Or is he doomed to relive his horrendous mistake all over again?


Fate
Prologue

The sounds of laughter and merrymaking outside never reached the still young man sitting inside his personal tent, concentrating on his task at hand. At first glance, he looked to be a mere boy of noble lineage. His youthful looks belied the wisdom obvious in his steely-blue eyes. The Prince of Persia sat bent over a piece of parchment in his tent, a quill in hand. Hanging lanterns sent shadows from his quill dancing along the tent walls. His own shadow only moved when he paused to dip his feather quill in the inkbottle at his side.

It's frightening how much you can come to know about a person in such a short amount of time. Little things, like the way that one piece of hair was always loose, dancing across her face in battle, and the way she never seemed to notice, stick out. And I'll never forget the way her eyes would light up when she saw me- not that I blame her really. I am irresistibly charming, not to mention my dashing good looks… and I had been one of the three people still alive, but that's not the point.

The point is her. She was- or still is, radiant. Not to mention graceful- except for that one time she shot me. It was lucky for her I had sand left in the Dagger and could rewind and duck. It was hilarious how she insisted she could never shoot me and that "her aim was as perfect as her looks". The latter I'll agree on. In all of Persia there isn't a woman as feisty as she is… and none near as worthy of myself as she had been.

Her skin is smoother and softer than the finest Persian silk. And her touch…

The Prince closed his eyes, going back to a certain memory… she in his arms, her lips on his, their hands intertwined…

"Son," his father's voice snapped him out of his daydream.

"Yes, father?"

"Why aren't you outside, celebrating our latest victory?"

The Prince shifted uncomfortably under his father's gaze. "I guess I just do not see a reason to celebrate, father."

"Of course, you are young, restless," his father gave him a sound pat on the back. "I understand how you must feel, I felt the same when I was your age. Still, it is good for morale, something you will understand more when you are older."

"I suppose," the Prince said, not meeting his father's eyes.

"Son, are you still upset over India? I know you anticipated the invasion and I was proud of you for hiding your disappointment as well as you did, but you can't hide it from me. Have patience, my son. In time you will get your invasion."

Before the Prince could reply his father had left. He almost went after him to see what he meant, but he decided he would find out in time. For now, he had other, more pleasant things to think about.